


Hearts and Minds

by swaddledog



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bisexual Faramir, Book Verse, But he's not exactly number one dad either, Denethor is NOT abusive, F/M, Faramir meets Gandalf, Faramir reads minds, Growing Up, Halls of Mandos, M/M, Numenorean adolescence blows, Some Daddy Issues here and there, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Valar as Eldritch horrors, asexual Boromir, namo - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:35:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27696371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swaddledog/pseuds/swaddledog
Summary: Five times Faramir's ability to read hearts and minds got him in to some sort of trouble, minor or major, and one time it didn't.Split into six chapters.1. Faramir learns of his ability at a most inopportune time for his unprepared parents. Genre: humor/family.2. Faramir meets someone he thought only existed in fairy tales.  Genre: friendship.3. Faramir looks into the mind of an Orc as it dies. Genre: horror, but hopefully not too intense(and not gory either).4. Faramir looks for reassurance in all the wrong places. Genre: mild (teen) angst
Relationships: Boromir (Son of Denethor II) & Faramir (Son of Denethor II), Denethor II & Faramir (Son of Denethor II), Faramir (Son of Denethor II) & Gandalf | Mithrandir, Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 29





	1. The Dinner

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written for this fandom in over ten years so I might be out of practice on the lore. I also feel like the culture of the fandom has changed a lot and probably people don't leave all caps flames in your reviews because a character said the eff word so I got a little brave here and some chapters might be a little out there for purists but I do my best to keep folks in character.

"What's jackass?"  
  
Boromir had giggled furiously, trying not to spit out his dinner, and Nana had gasped the way she did when he fell down after climbing on things he wasn't meant to, and Ada looked at him with a look he didn't really have good enough words for. His eyes were bigger than usual and his eyebrows went up and his mouth had opened a little like he might talk but he didn't at first. He asked Ada questions all the time because Ada always had really good answers and this was the first time Ada made that kind of face.  
  
"It's inappropriate is what it is," Nana said. She looked at the other man at the table who was a man whose name he couldn't remember but he was important and Faramir had to have good behavior. And inappropriate was not good behavior so now he just knew he'd have to write lines about it after dinner instead of playing. "I do so apologize. I've no idea where he could possibly have heard something so rude."  
  
"It is alright," the man said.  
  
"I did not know what it is so I can't be in trouble for it," he argued in his own defense. Ada said he had the makings of a good lawyer but he didn't know what lawyer was and Nana always sighed and looked cross with Ada when he said it.   
  
"It is a rude word and you are not so say it," Ada explained to him.  
  
"But you said it."  
  
Boromir giggled even harder now.  
  
"I said no such thing," Ada insisted.   
  
"I heard you say, it in my mind. You said that you were tired of this jackass and-"  
  
"Faramir!" Nana said sharply and Ada's mouth sort of twitched as he put a hand over his eyes.  
  
Now the man on the other side of the table had a look on his face like when Boromir gave him a lemon and told him it was like a baby orange and it most certainly was _not._ "Which jackass might that be, sir?" the man asked. The lady beside him looked very cross.  
  
"I could not say," Ada answered. "For I have said nothing of the sort. It is beneath my station to use such course language, certainly not before my children, and I assure you that my sons will learn that lesson as well. I suspect that my eldest has brought some interesting terminology back home from his time around the training yards of the Tower Guardsmen."  
  
"Have not, Ada!" Boromir protested.   
  
"We'll have no more discussion of this at this time," Ada said and he said it in that way that meant he really, really meant it. Boromir shot Faramir a sour look and he looked at the toes of his boots beneath the table cloth. He knew Boromir never stayed mad for long but it made him feel bad to make his brother cross, even for a minute.   
  
Nana had to prod him to eat the rest of his dinner and eventually the adults were done too. That usually meant Nana would take them to their rooms but this time Ada said he would do it. Which did not seem good. He was going to have to write _so_ many lines.  
  
They bade good evenings to the lord and lady and to Nana, and Ada took them out into the hall. Instantly, Boromir exploded, "I never said any bad words around Faramir! Except butt! But you said butt is only a little naughty and just to not say it in front of Nana and I haven't!"  
  
"I know," Ada said, which made Boromir look a little like he'd stepped on the deck of a sailboat without having earned his sea legs.   
  
"Truly? Am I in trouble?" Boromir asked.  
  
"No. Nor you, Faramir."  
  
"So it's okay to say-" Faramir started to ask but Ada shook his head with a sigh.  
  
"No. Jackass is still a naughty word. Don't say it." He took them to his study instead of to their rooms and that was the next thing that made it plain something was different tonight. He looked at Boromir who looked at him uncertainly. The study was not a bad place, exactly, but usually if there was a serious talk, it happened there. "Faramir. Tell me what number I have in mind."  
  
Boromir wrinkled his nose. But Faramir said, "Eighty-seven." Then a terrible thought struck him and he asked, "Is that how many lines I have to write?"  
  
Ada sighed and rubbed his eyes. "No. Tell me whose name I'm thinking right now."  
  
He could hear the name in his head but thinking something and saying it were different things and he struggled to say, "May..drowse Fay Anorien."  
  
"Wonderful," Ada muttered and leaned his elbows onto his desk.   
  
"What's going on?" Boromir wondered. He looked at Faramir and then to Ada.   
  
"I suspect that Faramir exhibits traits of..." He tapped a finger onto his desk a few times, something he did when he looked for better words for children, ones that weren't so long and big. He shook his head. "It's an ability which some Men of Numenor are given to. A way of seeing the hearts and minds of others."  
  
"Like the _goo_ and _guts_?" Faramir whispered, wrinkling his nose because he did _not_ want to see that.   
  
Ada looked at him and his mouth twitched. "Ah...no. Like their thoughts, and their feelings."  
  
That was some relief.  
  
"So what does that mean?" Boromir asked, crossing his arms on top of Ada's desk, something he liked to do because he had only just lately become tall enough to do it.   
  
"What's it mean?" Faramir echoed, grabbing on to the top of the desk as well and pushing on to his tiptoes to try to see over. Boromir pushed a light footstool towards him with his toe so that he could step on to it and see better.  
  
"Well it means that sometimes you may hear things that others are thinking. Such as that naughty word I thought at dinner."  
  
Boromir gasped, scandalized. "You really thought a naughty word!"  
  
"It's no crime to think something. Our actions are far more important."  
  
"How come you thought it?" Faramir asked.   
  
"It is sometimes tiring to be Steward," Ada said. "Sometimes, I would much rather have a peaceful dinner with you two and Naneth than meet another noble and have complicated discussions with them. But I can not."   
  
"So make them go away," Boromir said. "You are Steward, they must listen to you."  
  
"True. But what is a steward's greatest responsibility?"  
  
They answered together because they knew it by heart, "To serve his people to his utmost ability."  
  
"So, would it not be poor service to send one of my people away instead of hearing their concerns?"  
  
Boromir looked down at his feet. "I suppose it would not be good."  
  
"Nana says I am cranky if I do not nap. You should nap, and then, you will not be tired of being Steward," Faramir said.   
  
"It's something to consider," Ada said, and his mouth twitched. Then he shook his head. "We're getting away from the point. Faramir, you will need to have some extra lessons to better understand this talent."  
  
"Ohh, not fair! I take a lot of lessons already!" And he did! Letters and maths and soon he'd learn swords and bows! And this too!  
  
"It may be unfair but there is no other option. It is very important that you learn how to keep a quiet mind when the thoughts of those around you become nigh unbearable. If you have no room in your head for your own thoughts, you will suffer for it," Ada told him.   
  
"Ada," Boromir said suddenly. "Do you have that talent too?"   
  
Ada nodded and Faramir thought if Ada had it then maybe it should be Boromir who had it too, not him. He wasn't going to be Steward, after all, so what did he need with an extra talent? 


	2. The Report

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A disinterested student meets a character out of his childhood bedtime stories.

It was colder outside now but he found lately that he sort of liked the first chill of late autumn. It was refreshing after the seemingly endless heat of summer. He could keep his window open not out of necessity but because the breeze was cooling and carried the scent of dozens of kitchens baking apples into some confection or another.   
  
So he was outside now, studying for a report he needed to give to his tutor. It was supposed to be about yet another battle and the mistakes and successes made by both sides and what could be done to fix and counter each respectively. He hated battles and strategizing about them. Some of his cohort thought that was odd, but he found their detachment from the loss of life just as, if not more, odd. These numbers in these books were not abstractions to him. Each one was a person. A father or brother or maybe neither because even without any kin one still had a right and reason to live for his own sake. Each one had their potential snuffed out like it'd never been and it left him with some sick feeling in his stomach.   
  
And maybe that led him to lay there in the grass and appreciate his surroundings instead of continue to study. The Citadel garden was empty save for him, and he listened to the sounds of the city. Horse hooves on cobblestones. Merchants hawking anything from exotic foods to useless trinkets. He thought he heard a rooster somewhere. People shuffling along in the halls behind him. He closed his eyes and listened a little harder, listened in a way that few Men could anymore.   
  
Somebody else his age was in the library below him, researching a similarly uninteresting topic for his own tutor. He was bored and daydreaming about the best way to court a girl he'd met visiting his mother's family in Lebennin. An irritated archivist was waiting impatiently nearby, very well aware that this boy was  _not_ reading any of the accounts the older man had meticulously gathered. The older man thought something very impolite about the privileged sons of nobles and Faramir winced a bit and quit snooping immediately.   
  
Even if the man hadn't been annoyed with him, the point stood well enough. He was as privileged as it got and he was poking around in people's heads without their knowledge or consent to distract himself from a report he didn't want to finish. He was being irresponsible and rude, and he couldn't let it become a habit just because no one was around to catch him.  
  
"Are you so sure about that?"   
  
His mind snapped shut like the jaws of a great dragon around a precious stone and he jerked most ungracefully into an upright position. The book he'd been reading fell from his lap to the grass, and he lost his place, but that was not his greatest concern at the moment.   
  
An old man stood on the stone-paved path that circled the garden. He sported perhaps the longest beard Faramir had ever seen on a person, and in his left hand he carried a staff. Under bushy brows, dark eyes glittered with an indecipherable expression.   
  
"Well, not any more I suppose," he admitted because what was the point in lying? He'd come so used to the notion that the only other person in all of Minas Tirith like him was his own father, and half the city was between them at the moment as his father attended to some business in the lower levels. Their talents had limits, after all.   
  
"What is your name?" the old man asked.  
  
"Faramir. But I'm guessing you already know that?"  
  
"Yes, I do. However, it seems somehow rude to not ask all the same."  
  
He lowered his eyes. He got the point. It really wasn't a difficult one to understand-don't take things without asking. Children understood this. But he was behaving as if the rules didn't apply. "I know I shouldn't have been doing that. I'm sorry."  
  
"No need to apologize to me. It would take a great deal more power than you possess to penetrate my mind," the old man said. Faramir couldn't tell if that was meant to be an insult but his cheeks burned with embarrassment all the same. "But worry not. There are very few in Arda with power such as that."  
  
His brows drew together, curiosity far outweighing any shame he may have felt mere moments ago. Adar said that Men like them used to be more common, but that as more Numenoreans mingled with lesser bloodlines, such gifts as the ones they had became rare. In Elves it was not so unusual at all, and there was even speculation that Numenoreans were given to such traits because of Elros Tar-Minyatur being a son of an Elf. But this old man, with all his wrinkles and aged features, was plainly not of the First Born. "Might I ask your name, sir?"  
  
"I have many names in many lands. Here you may have heard of me as Mithrandir."  
  
"Mithrandir!" he echoed, now climbing to his feet because it felt entirely too disrespectful that he, even as a son of the Steward of Gondor, should sit idly while one of the agents of the Valar stood some few meters away. "You are-" Normally perfectly articulate, he found so many words trying to beat their way out of his mouth he couldn't put together a coherent sentence. Stupid child that he still was, the statement that came out in the end was, "I didn't know you were  _real!_ "  
  
Rather than being insulted, Mithrandir laughed and it was a warm and pleasant sound. "Indeed I am real, though I'd suppose there are some who'd rather I wasn't!"  
  
"Not me," he said quickly, daring to take a step towards the old man. "My Nana-I mean, Naneth, she told me all sorts of stories about you. About your travels to strange lands and how you helped the sailors of Dol Amroth slay a sea serpent when she was a child. I thought they were just bedtime stories."  
  
Mithrandir tilted his head thoughtfully as if digging for the memory before humming, "Ah yes. Adventurous little Finduilas. Bold young woman, she was. She wanted to ride in the warship with your grandfather, see the terrible beast for herself!" He laughed fondly.   
  
He couldn't help but smile too. Adar always said Boromir had his mother's spirit and thirst for excitement. And he supposed it made sense. It had to come from somewhere. Then he said, "You haven't come to Minas Tirith to help slay some beast or another, have you?" Plainly not, since there were none running rampant save the one most foul in the shadows of the East. It would pounce some day, probably in their lifetime, Adar said, but not just yet.   
  
"No, no. Nothing so dire. I seek for knowledge of times long past, and the libraries of Minas Tirith are quite exceptional for the completion of such a task. As I see you already know." Mithrandir inclined his head to the book in the grass.   
  
Faramir frowned at it. "Yes, so long as you aren't researching reports for your tutor, I guess."  
  
"Surely that is not so terrible a way to spend one's time?"  
  
"Well..." Faramir shrugged and regretted mentioning it. Mithrandir would surely think he was strange for his lack of interest in battle, after all his grand adventures. But if Istari were as powerful as the tales said, there was no sense in trying to lie to one, so he didn't. "It's simply not about a subject I'm very interested in."  
  
"Oh? Politics, perhaps? Ancient history? Natural philosophy?"   
  
He shook his head. Any one of those would've been greatly preferred. "Warfare."  
  
At that, Mithrandir looked at him a little more closely and his eyes took on that glittering look they'd had when Faramir first took notice of him. "Indeed."  
  
He felt pressured to explain, as he always did when he felt like he was being judged and found wanting. "It's just-I don't understand how everyone can read about all that suffering and horror and not feel anything about it. Treat it like it's an accountant's ledger come tax time or something. Just totals and statistics. It seems sickening." He shook his head, self-conscious. Why did he have to keep speaking! "But I know I'm being dramatic. No one else says things like that, so I'm-" He shrugged. "Too naive I suppose."  
  
"I think you have it the wrong way around," Mithrandir said finally, tapping the end of his staff against the pavers. Faramir's eyes dropped to his feet as he prepared himself for the inevitable reprimand for his childishness. But then: "You may have the most nuanced understanding of war of any noble in all of Gondor."  
  
"Um." He didn't exactly  _intend_ to look at Mithrandir like he was mad. But really. His mother had said Istari often had a mischievous bent, that they could be frustratingly difficult to understand. And his father found them so distasteful he preferred to not speak of them at all. Now he was starting to see how both of them came by those opinions.   
  
"You've assessed perfectly the obscene cost of war without ever having had to step onto the field of battle." Mithrandir narrowed his eyes slightly, and Faramir felt a not exactly familiar sensation because it didn't happen often-someone trying to get a glimpse of his mind and his heart. "And I don't for a second believe you say these things for any other reason than because they are what you truly believe in the depths of your  _f_ **_ ë _ ** _a_ ."   
  
Flustered from such high praise from somebody who was supposed to be very wise, he felt a compulsion to humble himself before someone else did it for him. "My father says I'm terribly contrarian sometimes, so it's likely the reason I think like that. I am no brilliant philosopher with carefully examined ethics, after all."   
  
"Perhaps not, but you surely have the makings of one."  
  
He'd once seen a fish in a tide pool at Dol Amroth which could blow itself up larger and larger until it seemed like it would burst. And just now, speaking with Mithrandir, his insides felt a lot like that. He didn't have it in him to disagree with the wizard further, even if he shook his head. "Well that's very high praise..."  
  
"And I do not give it lightly." Ugh. The fish was going to  _pop_ . "Come. I've some time before I take my supper with a friend in the sixth circle. Tell me what else you study with your tutor."  
  
He nodded. "Only...well if you wouldn't mind telling me more stories of my mother in Dol Amroth."  
  
Mithrandir smiled and nodded. "I certainly think I can find a tale or two."


	3. The Rule

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir looks into the mind of an Orc as it dies. He does not have A Good Time.

It was his first time killing an Orc. Boromir and Adar warned him it would not be easy, and many books he'd read agreed with them. His brother also told him nothing he could find in books would prepare him for it, but that didn't stop him from reading about it all the same. There was no love lost between Men and Orcs, but the act of killing something that could speak to you, beg for its life, curse you for hastening its end, was devastating all the same.  
  
It did not help that he was also a foolhardy idiot, too curious for his own good. Or maybe it'd been the guilt of taking a life that drove him to try it. Even if it was an Orc's life. Adar had told him as a child that it was perhaps the most important thing he learn about the limits of mind-reading. But most teenagers did not listen to the sage advice given by previous generations, so he spared the warning only the briefest thought before making his decision.  
  
He'd gritted his teeth against the awful sensation of his blade penetrating a warm body. No amount of straw targets or wood dummies could've made him ready for that feeling and it was one he was sure to never forget. The Orc howled in rage and fought on still. Faramir had no desire to keep going. It seemed dishonorable somehow. The thing was gravely injured, black blood gushing from its stomach. It was good as dead so why make it any worse?  
  
But if he didn't end its thrashing it could kill someone else. And it would suffer longer. So he struck again, and it fell to its knees. He heard its rasping breath. That last, rattling exhalation he'd read so much about, and he focused his mind-  
  
_BREATHE BREATHE BRE-  
  
_ Done in by a raven-haired West-man, just a bloody pup and it got the better of me-  
  
Blood! Foul and metallic and warm in his throat, in his mouth, can't breathe-  
  
Something. Crackles. Behind. My. Eyes. It's sp-It's sp-  
  
Sharp. Everything's so sharp. Stretched to forever. It's all compressed to a point in space and the point penetrates, deep, deep until  
  
He's empty. Or he's so full he can't feel it, he doesn't know. There is no 'knowing' anymore there is only-only-   
  
A place without words, a world without meaning, something incomprehensible. There are lights and shadows or maybe that's not at all what they are because eyes are useless here. Eyes aren't meant to see here. The air feels like nothing because it isn't air. Something moves. All he can liken it to is the gaping maw of some horrifically large beast, big enough to swallow the dome of the sky. There are many of them, as far as he can see, and they open and close, open and close, taking what rises up into that horrid firmament they create. Shapes, wisps, things billowing up like smoke and he knows, somehow, in the pit of his heart, he knows they are the dead. They are moving, everywhere there is movement but movement implies a body, implies locomotion, implies muscle and sinew and this is not a place for meat and bones this is  
  
**THIS IS NOT FOR YOU TO KNOW.**   
  
It hurt and it hurt and oh great god of death I'm sorry I didn't know I didn't know-!  
  
**NEVER AGAIN, FARAMIR DENETHORION.**   
  
He sees the one who speaks-who exists and whose thoughts, no whose will, no the entirety of their unknowable existence-it cuts into his mind and He is something beyond words because there are no words in His silent and sombre halls. There are no eyes in His face because there is no sun or moon by which to see. There are mouths, only so many, many mouths, mouths that speak judgements, thousands upon thousands. There are many hands, ragged, ageless and old at once, weary from the endlessness of His task yet strong because there is no other who may even attempt to complete it.   
  
**I DO NOT GIVE SECOND CHANCES.**   
  
One of His many mouths closes, and he's been judged: insufficient, unwelcome, trespasser.   
  
The wave of a hand as if to ward off something inconsequential. The earth slams into him.  
  
He howled. There was no other word for the animal sound that erupted out of him then. Fingers trembling, desperate to touch the earth. His limbs felt light as air and he had to hold the earth because otherwise he might drift away, back there to be consumed by one of His many mouths, and he shook and he shook. His tongue held a bitter taste, like vomit or foul medicine.   
  
"Hold still! You're alright!"  
  
He breathed, finally, and it was like his mind returned to itself. He looked at his hands, fingers clutching linen sheets on a cot. His vision was blurred and he blinked to clear it. Someone moved beside him and he pushed himself away. The world spun, but it was there, at least.  
  
"Lord Faramir, are you understanding me? Do you hear me?"  
  
He stared at Nurse Ioreth, and she stared back with concern, with a little hope. He nodded because he didn't trust himself to open his mouth and speak.   
  
She breathed. "Varda's stars! Dear Eru in Heaven do you know what a scare you've caused us young man!"  
  
"Ioreth."  
  
"Three days and nights you been there and not a one of us could get through-"  
  
"Ioreth..."  
  
"-think your poor father hasn't done a lick of work since-"  
  
"Nurse Ioreth!"  
  
Ioreth jerked back abruptly and glared at the other man. "Well, no need to shout! I'm right here!"  
  
"All of Gondor knows," the man said, pinching his nose. "Go put your voice to use and let the Steward know his son is awake, won't you?" The man-the Warden of the Houses, Faramir thought-stepped out of the doorway and into the room, watching Ioreth leave. Then he shook his head and looked to Faramir. "If that's what I had to greet me upon waking, I'd keep my eyes closed, too."  
  
His mouth was dry and his head was still spinning and he only now realized how terribly hungry he was. "What happened?" he asked and he hated how thin and raspy his voice sounded.   
  
"A fine question," the Warden responded. He leaned in close, staring into his eyes. Then he took Faramir by the chin and turned his head this way and that. "You've got no obvious injuries. No fever. None of your company reported seeing you take a blow to the head. No bleeding, inside or out that we can tell. What do you remember?"  
  
He hated to say. Had it even been real, or had he simply been struck dumb by some madness? "I remember being in Ithilien. There was a skirmish."  
  
"And?"  
  
He shrugged. How to describe what had followed without sounding insane?   
  
The Warden hummed thoughtfully and moved to the table beneath the window.   
  
"Have I really been asleep three days?" Faramir asked.  
  
"Asleep? Do you feel rested?"  
  
"Not particularly." He took the cup of warm water and honey that the Warden offered and drank it slowly.  
  
"Well, that at least makes sense. You thrashed and screamed like a madman for the first two days, much to the chagrin of the Rangers tasked with bringing you back here. Then you fell so silent and still on the third that we thought you dead at first."   
  
He tried to let nothing show in his face but it was hard. Whatever had happened-  
  
"You kept apologizing for something."  
  
He clutched the cup a little harder to keep his hand from trembling and spilling its contents.   
  
"I suspect it's a fit. Hysteria. I heard from your Captain that this was your first kill."  
  
"Oh," he said. Now all of Gondor would tell tales of his cowardice. Pampered noble driven to hysteria by his first battle.   
  
"It's not completely unheard of that-"  
  
The heavy tread of their parent in a foul mood is one every child learns to recognize well, and so to did Faramir recognize the sound and weight of his father's feet in the corridor outside. The Warden's explanation went mostly ignored and then Adar was there in the doorway. "A moment," he said tersely to the other man.   
  
"Of course my Lord." Unlike chatty Ioreth, he left without another word, closing the door behind him.   
  
Adar looked at him, hard. Faramir looked back and said nothing even though he wanted to break and run to him and spill it all. At eighteen, he wasn't a child anymore. Not by Gondor's standards. But the notion of a parent as the ultimate provider of safety was hard to shake. Even if his father had not been particularly warm in many years.   
  
"What is the one thing I told you that you must never do with mind-sight?" Adar said finally, voice straining in a way Faramir hadn't ever heard before. Like he was ready to explode. Adar never exploded, never shouted angrily. Adar's anger was the cold and icy type.  
  
"To not watch a man die," he answered quietly, as if the wrong tone, the wrong word, would be the spark that set the fire.  
  
"Why was that, Faramir?"  
  
He shook his head and looked at his hands, picking at frayed threads in the blanket. "It wasn't a man."  
  
That didn't make it any better. Adar cursed, loudly. Faramir dared not look up. He'd never heard his father use language like that, and he and Boromir had angered him plenty over the years. He heard quick movements, looked up, tensed, Adar wouldn't hit him he wouldn't he wouldn't-  
  
Adar's arms were tight around him, like Faramir might turn to ash and fall apart if he wasn't there to hold him together. "You stupid, stubborn child," Adar muttered in a strangely desperate voice. "What did I  _ tell  _ you? What did I  _ say?"  
  
_ "I'm sorry," he said and tears were threatening to spill because his father never behaved like this and it told him just how serious this transgression had been. Everything about the world was wrong right now and it was his fault. Why had he looked? Why did he always have to look?  
  
"Never again. You must never,  _ ever  _ do this again! No matter the reason! Nothing good can come of it! Nothing! If you look for death, you will find it, and you will wish you hadn't!" Adar held tighter, as if the very thought pained him and he had to remind himself that Faramir was still here and whole. "It is not for us to know. Not before our times."  
  
He nodded, unable to speak for the knot in his chest and the lump in his throat. He didn't have to be told twice. 


	4. The Trial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir looks for attention in the wrong places and feels bad about it. 
> 
> Kind of warnings about sex. It's not detailed porn or anything but it is plain he's getting laid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for emphasis in case I somehow gave the wrong idea:
> 
> There is NOOOO incest in this. none and nil and none. Nothing in this chapter should be interpreted as anything other than a somewhat lonely, confused kid replacing the desired parental affection and validation with a poor substitute.

He'd been told he was a fairly analytical and thoughtful person. By fellow soldiers, by his Captain, by his brother, even by his father(though typically with the added implication that he needed to put said traits to better use). However, when it came to certain areas of his life, he preferred to do as little analyzing as possible.   
  
For instance: now. He was sure there were complicated mechanisms at work in his mind which had him making a gratuitous amount of eye contact with an attractive gentleman twice his age at the table near the other end of the bar. He was also sure that he didn't want to think about said mechanisms, or why this kind of scenario kept playing out so soon after taking a verbal beating from his father, or why that empty sort of feeling in him could often be forgotten with a good lay, or why it came back tenfold the day after, or why he seemed to not care when the cycle started all over again.   
  
It was really, really not something he wanted to think about.   
  
He was twenty two, told he was attractive by enough people to believe it without letting it get to his head, and as one of Numenorean descent, he was not as mature as one of his age with lower blood. But not many people thought of that, especially since he had a mind for complex things and a life lived in the highest court of the most powerful kingdom of Men in Arda. "You seem older than others your age," they'd often say before they screwed him senseless. Like they needed to justify why it was okay to do this with someone young enough to be their child.   
  
But he was an idiot thirsting for positive attention from someone old enough to be his father so-  
  
He had to stop thinking. About anything.  
  
It wasn't just men, but it was harder to find women who were alright with such an arrangement. More was expected of women. They were told they had to stay pure and perfect for their husbands while everyone looked the other way if men buggered their way across the face of the world. So women were more cautious, afraid he'd just use their encounter as something to brag about when out with the boys and thus sully her chances of marrying someone respectable some day.   


He had no difficulty picking up on interest in him. He could feel it without having to look into their minds because this sort of thing was not exactly the provenance of the mind to begin with. Sometimes he left wanting because the men present had no interest in other men. It wasn't terribly common in Gondor, but it wasn't unusual either. Being a large and varied country, some towns looked down on such behavior. Minas Tirith wasn't one of them. Then there were the times that there were men like that around but they were too responsible to take him to bed. "Go home before you get yourself into trouble," they'd advise him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. He was a desperate fool, so that was enough affection to make a dent in the emptiness and he'd go home and try not to think about what he was chasing and why his stupid young body made demands like this and why his stupid young mind agreed to try to satisfy them.  
  
Tonight wasn't like that though, and the attractive soldier with sharp but not entirely unkind features and rough hands left his friends at their table and took the seat at the bar beside him. Neither of them said anything at first, so he relaxed his guard and let the man's thoughts filter into his mind. _Pretty little thing._ He hated it and wanted to do whatever it took to make the man say it out loud at the same time. "Posted in Ithilien, eh?" the man asked finally.   
  
He nodded at his drink in response. He wasn't wearing the leather armor of the Rangers, but the green of his cloak and the brown of his boots and pants was probably enough. He never dressed himself up when he did this. He didn't want to be taken for a noble if he could help it. This shouldn't be about rank and class or whatever else. He needed to be seen for himself, not for his family. Not to mention this sort of activity didn't cast the finest reflection on his station.   
  
"Didn't realize they were so desperate for Rangers that they're stealing them out of the nurseries these days."  
  
Some of them liked to tease. Maybe it made them feel less predatory, somehow. "And I didn't realize they were so desperate for soldiers that they're refusing to let them enter retirement."  
  
The man laughed and said, "You've got a sharp little tongue."  
  
He felt his heart speeding up as the man leaned in, as he listened once again to the man's desire for him, listened and heard, _This one, I absolutely need this one._ Something fluttered in him and again he became determined to draw validation out of the other man's mouth, whatever it took.  
  
"I wouldn't mind seeing what else you can do with it."  
  
A knuckle traced a gentle path over the curve of his cheekbone. He stared into his drink, briefly took the time to wonder what was wrong with him one last time, and then emptied his cup before sliding off his seat. He let his eyes meet the other man's. "Do you have a room here?"  
  
"I can," the man said.  
  
He nodded and headed for the stairs while the man paid. Not five minutes later he was shoved into a wall, warm lips on his neck, the stubble of a beard scratching at his throat as he panted for air. "You done this before?" the man asked, one hand tugging at his hair and the other yanking roughly at his pants.   
  
He didn't have to focus to hear the man hoping he hadn't, so he lied and said, "No." That wave of renewed interest from the older man that followed made him feel justified in lying, somehow.   
  
_Nienna wept,_ _I need_ this _one._ "I'll make it good for you," the man snarled into his ear before biting at his neck, tongue trailing over his racing pulse.   
  
He let his eyes fall shut. Felt something hard and heavy against his thigh. The pressure of a larger body against him. He thought he might be crushed into the wall with the fervor of the other man's thrusts. A rough hand skimmed over his hip, to his ribs beneath his tunic.   
  
Sometimes they didn't last very long. He didn't think it was out of any significant skill on his part, but more a consequence of their age. This one did not have that problem, and Faramir easily lost track of the time to the sound of the man's moans and those warm thoughts he let flood his head. Thoughts about how perfect he was and how good this was and how badly the man wanted to take him home and make him his and then completion was on them and-  
  
The man's thoughts winnowed out to some dull buzz, nothing like the high of the pleasure and praise from just seconds before. And this was the part where Faramir demanded himself to stop listening but because something was wrong with him, he never obeyed orders that were made in his best interest.   
  
_What on earth am I thinking? He's not any older than Arodion. Eru forgive me this is disgusting, how could I-  
  
_ The man could no longer look him in the face but Faramir could see his mouth working as if searching for something to say to him. "Don't concern yourself," Faramir said. "With speaking, I mean. I'm going."  
  
 _Good I don't think I could stand the sight of you-  
  
_ He snapped his mind shut and tried not to think about how hollow he felt. The streets of the city were empty so late in the night but even if they'd been packed he doesn't think he would've noticed. There was only that buzzing, empty hollow behind his ribs. He kept walking until his feet took him to Boromir's rooms.   
  
Of course he ended up there. He always did when he was at his worst. Even when Boromir was not in the city, it still felt like the most comforting place to be, and so he'd go just to sit until he calmed down. It happened less as he outgrew childish fears and agitations. But it wasn't a habit he was ready to altogether dispense with. Certainly not tonight.   
  
Boromir was asleep and having odd but not frightening dreams. The way normal people got to dream. No visions of waves and the genocide of your people by vengeful gods, because Boromir got to be normal. Boromir got to be loved and supported and without afflictions like foresight and mind-reading.   
  
And he was being petulant and stupid. Inhaling a shaking breath he clenched his jaw and looked around the dark room. On the chair in the corner there was a blanket, discarded and unfolded into a pile of fabric. He took it and sat, resting his back against Boromir's bed and trying to make his head as empty as the rest of him.  
  
Somehow, he managed to fall asleep, ending up sprawled across the soft rug. He found a pillow under his head. He pushed himself up and rubbed his eyes. Through the open door of Boromir's bedroom into the sitting room, he saw his brother at the small table by the window. He was drinking tea which he claimed to hate yet drank every morning all the same, and writing or drawing something. Faramir pushed himself up and found his way to the empty seat at the table. He simultaneously hated and craved the discussion that was about to happen.   
  
"Were you utterly miserable for the entirety of your years from sixteen until now," Faramir said more than asked.   
  
"More or less," Boromir said, tapping at a piece of parchment with a stick of charcoal. A messy sketch of his breakfast donned the page-fruit, bread, tea. Boromir had few interests outside of battle, and somehow it made sense to Faramir that this was one of them. Boromir was not quiet and guarded like himself. He put everything he felt and thought out into the world without hesitation. With that kind of honesty and confidence, it was easy for Boromir to create things that could be judged in the literal blink of an eye because he simply didn't care about what that judgement would be. No, Boromir wasn't made for elaborate treatises or carefully composed literature that necessitated constant revisions and responses to critique. Like art, he was what he was, and if one was disinterested, it didn't matter because it wasn't changing. "It gets better after you turn twenty-eight or so."  
  
Twenty-eight. He had to deal with this misery for six more years. And help fight a war to end all wars.   
  
"I think something is wrong with me," he admitted.  
  
"Yes. You're a bit of a weasel sometimes."  
  
"No. I'm being serious." He looked up at his brother across the table and it was so, so tempting to let his guard down and hear what Boromir was thinking right now. It took all of his willpower to keep from peeking.   
  
But when he looked at Boromir he realized he didn't really need to look much farther. The concern and care he saw on his face wasn't an act. It wasn't something he felt out of obligation. Boromir loved him. He knew that. So he said, "I keep doing this. Going out, bedding whoever. Older men. A lot older." He shook his head at the way that sounded. "Not _so_ old but I mean-" He waved a hand, too wound up to be articulate. "Forty. FIfty. It's probably not right."  
  
Boromir sighed through his nose and kept scratching at his sketch but said nothing. They didn't usually trade tales of sexual exploits, in part because Boromir didn't have many. He was utterly uninterested in them. As young sons of the lord of the city, people often gossiped about them. It was assumed that Boromir, with his boldness and charm, swept through the bedrooms of countless maidens throughout the city, leaving behind a trail of broken hearted(yet also very satisfied) women. And it was assumed that he, with his more sombre and thoughtful disposition, spent his evenings reading poetry to his One True Love in the hopes of winning her heart.   
  
But the reality was like some bad joke. The heir, the one whose blood mattered most, didn't want sex. He didn't want a relationship, and viewed the matter as something to work out in papers and contracts at some as of yet unspecified Right Time. And the spare, like it was his responsibility to pick up the slack, couldn't help but fall into bed with men and women alike so long as they validated his existence with a pleasant word or two. Like a starved rat eating crumbs out of a dump.   
  
"You know I'd tell you to stop it, but you also know you won't," Boromir said finally, tracing lazy circles at the corner of the paper. "You always end up miserable because of these people. What was their name?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"You don't owe them the shit off your shoes, Faramir. Tell me their name."  
  
"I don't know!" he snapped back. "That's what I'm telling you! It isn't about loving or wanting any of them I just-" He ran his fingers through his hair and cringed as he thought of how the man had pulled at it and suddenly he wanted to cut it all off. He sank lower in the chair and muttered, "I'm not interested in them. I'm interested in what they make me feel."  
  
"And what's that?" Boromir asked because he at least got that they weren't talking about orgasms. When no response came, Boromir sighed and set the charcoal down. "Numenorean adolescence is a nightmare because we haven't nearly finished growing at all, yet society deems us men. Few boys of lower blood are really men by eighteen. And our lifespans are near twice theirs. We come up slower, so this-what you're going through will last longer but most everyone around you will expect you to have been past it for many years. So yes, it probably isn't right. You shouldn't be..." Here he cleared his throat. "Doing any of that right now. With anyone. Even if they think you're old enough, even if _you_ think you're old enough, you aren't. But if you really must, find someone your own age, someone you could really bond with. It is not...it's not good for you to be with people so much older. They know how to take advantage."   
  
He wanted to explain. Tell him about how empty he felt sometimes because he could do little to earn warmth from their father without it being chased immediately by everything he'd done wrong, like one pure white lamb tailed by every ravenous wolf in Arda. Tell him how fondly the other young Rangers in his company spoke of their parents back home and how he felt like some sick and alien creature because he could not relate, he could not _bond_ as Boromir put it, with people like that. He wanted to tell Boromir how everything that was mixed up could briefly feel sorted if he found the right stranger's bed to lay in every now and then and how this couldn't possibly be the way adolescence-Numenorean or otherwise-was meant to be. Would it really change anything, or would it just make him seem like even more of a deviant?   
  
Faramir shook his head and despair crept in. He couldn't make his brother understand. Nobody could understand. There was just something fundamentally _wrong_ with him.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clarify thoughts on Denethor for those interested in meta:
> 
> I don't think he hates Faramir or abuses him or whatever crap Peter Jackson managed to plant into the minds of an entire generation of people for The Drama. I think he'd hold both kids to insanely high standards in preparation for what's to come and also because i love the idea of both the brothers being total perfectionist good at everything ever types and having total meltdowns if they aren't because jesus christ the future of gondor rides on my being able to sword fight on horseback while reciting laws in archaic languages!!! I also imagine Denethor unwittingly holds Faramir to different or higher standards than Boromir because he sees so much of himself in Faramir and while he is proud and wise and all that jazz, he's still a man facing a freaking demigod that wants to wipe him and his people off the face of the earth at worst and make them slaves at best and that's bound to cause feelings. Like 'maybe Im not up for this after all' or 'I HAVE to be up for this whether im ready or not'. And it's pretty obvious he's already devastatingly depressed from losing Finduilas. So maybe Faramir is like a proxy for himself in a weird way. Like admonishing Faramir is also a way of admonishing his own shortcomings without having to confront that he actually has shortcomings. IDK it's just pop psychology about fictional characters that I think about when I'm washing the dishes.


End file.
